Line in the Sand

By Fred Andersen

When are you safe? Who do you trust? Is it ever right to do wrong? These questions drive the characters in A LINE IN THE SAND, the story of four near-strangers who must band together to defeat a vicious and powerful gang, while hiding their actions from law enforcement. Desperate choices will be made in the first few minutes of the story, and plot twists will come down to the final page. Packed in between are action, psychological suspense, admirable courage, and undeniable terror. Killers will be killed; authorities will be lied to; young people in their first act of adulthood will go against everything they’ve ever learned or wanted. In the end, life and hope are chosen over fear and death; a new family is formed; a new future is imagined. The story works both sides of the southwestern U.S. border and revolves around a vendetta by a drug cartel against two refugee boys, who wind up under the hastily improvised protection of a Phoenix elementary school teacher and janitor. This unlikely band defeats hired killers but then must hide their victory out of fear of retribution from the seemingly omnipotent and utterly evil cartel. At the same time, we are also seeing the events through the eyes of a young man born into a crime family, who is beginning to question his destiny, and for whom a chance meeting may offer a better way to the future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fred Andersen
• Release date: Sep 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463747285

Fred Andersen

Fred Andersen is the author of novels, non-fiction, stories and articles (and poetry, but we don't talk about that)."The Dead Cartoonist" is a mystery about a successful but troubled comic strip creator who is kidnapped in Spain—or maybe he isn't. It's a story of suspense, drama, romance and foreign adventure. And it's stuffed with jokes and references to comics strips, comic books and universes, cartoons, animateds, and other pop culture junk."Pamela Carr," (2021) and "Lily Torrence" are classic noir mysteries set in 1940s Hollywood and based on real scandals and characters of that era, when glamour and ambition walk manicured hand and velvet glove with desperation and desire."A Line in the Sand" is a contemporary thriller rooted in the violence associated with drug cartels. and in stories of drug enforcement agents and members of organized crime families."Pregnant Without a Cause" is a screwball domestic comedy of teen angst, midlife crisis and reality TV. Michelle and her daughter Callie already have enough problems without adding a secret baby in their lives.Fred lives in Phoenix with his wife and family, but every summer contemplates moving to Lake Kookanusa, Montana, or some such place

Book preview

Chapter 1

FRANK

Grand Avenue School is an old brick building with high ceilings and wood floors. When it was built, almost ninety years ago, it stood in lettuce and alfalfa fields. Now it's in a ragged part of downtown. A lot of souls have passed through here. Children. Teachers. And janitors. At night, when everyone’s gone but me, making my last go-round, there's a sound, a low moan, so soft you can’t be sure it's even real. But all the HVAC is off, all the water pipes are still, the traffic on Grand Ave has quieted down, and still there’s that whisper, that murmur, that moan. After I started hearing it I ignored it for a while, then I denied it was there. When I couldn’t deny it anymore, I looked for the source. I know this place better than anyone. I’m the plant manager—what they used to call the custodian, or, the janitor. I never could find a source of the moan, and I came to think of it as the life force, the leftover energy of the day, of students and teachers and everyone else, molecules of hopes and dreams and learning, seeping away through the dried-up window frames, and the worn out weatherstripping. By morning, when I open up, the moan is gone. Then another day starts.

That night—Friday, the twelfth of March—I was not the only one there. Two boys waited in Ms. Castellon's room with her for the social worker to come over from District. They would be going to a shelter for the night. Not that unusual. At inner-city schools we deal with a lot of extracurriculars. Family problems, mostly. The parents disappear or go to jail or go crazy. Gangs or ethnic groups don't like one another, and kids get caught in the middle. All kinds of stuff.

Mr. Touwsma, the principal, had explained about the boys earlier in the day. At that point all I knew was that they were immigrant kids in a dicey situation. The boys had been brought to the U.S. by their mother, and left with a relative. That’s how they ended up in my school.

The young one said he was afraid to go home.

Oh boy, I said. The reddest of red flags.

Not afraid of the guardian, he shrugged. She’s their aunt, I guess. But it’s some back home rivalry that’s followed them.

You can’t escape the old country.

Yeah, they actually wanted to go home with Ms. Castellon and bring the aunt with them. Touwsma’s dark blue eyes showed he anticipated my next question. I don’t know where the parents are. Doesn’t matter. Can’t send ‘em home with a teacher.

One of the boys is Adam, and he's in eighth grade. The other one, I forget his name, is in Ms. Castellon's sixth grade. They haven’t been in school here long, a couple of weeks, maybe a couple of months. When doing my first pass after school, I stopped in to Castellon’s room. The social worker was running late. Since the building was going to be locked soon, I told Ms. C to call me when they needed me to let the social worker in. I went back to work, the building emptied out, she still didn't call.

I was finishing up in the library—dumping trash, straightening chairs—when I heard a door open and close, sounded like the one from the parking lot. I didn't think it would be the social worker, since Castellon hadn’t called, so I assumed Kurt had come back to tell me something or pick up something he forgot. He's the Number Two custodian, in fact, if not in title. But he's a young guy, music blowin' in his ears all day. Never has those earbuds out. He forgets things. I assumed he would come and find me or call my cell if he needed me. Probably just forgot something.

The second-floor library looks out on the courtyard and the back of the office. As I turned to pick up the paper recycling basket, I saw two men walking toward the office. That had been what I heard. Though the doors are locked at four thirty, teachers and others still leave after that, and sometimes they don't make sure the door latches behind them. And sometimes doors stick, or latches don't latch. It's an old school.

I didn't know or much care who they were, but something made me look again. They were obviously Mexican, or Mex-Am, like most of our parents, But two men? Or maybe it was the clothes. One had cowboy boots and a thigh-length gray coat. The other one wore what I'd call a letterman's jacket—short, dark blue, with leather sleeves—and white warm-up pants. These didn't look like concerned relatives, or someone looking to volunteer for the reading program. I thought of the two boys—they were going to the shelter for a reason.

And then I saw, in Letterman’s hand, silhoutted agaist the white pants, a large black automatic pistol. That settled it. I pulled my phone out, and it lit up.

But now Cowboy did something that made me freeze. He stopped at the back door of the office and looked down, doing something with his hands. Then the door opened, I saw a flash of silver metal, and they went in.

He had keys. Not just a key, the whole ring of keys. Kurt had left at six, and these two showed up not ten minutes later with a key ring—that’s how they got in the building. I felt a cold, hard stone under my ribs. Those were almost certainly Kurt's keys, and God knew what had happened to Kurt.

I hesitated, scared by what I was about to do. They wouldn't find anyone in the office, but they might find out where Castellon’s room was, and I was sure now that that's what they were looking for. To get across to the Fifth/Sixth-Grade wing, I had to move quickly. I knew nothing about this situation, why the boys were in danger, or why these men wanted them. But I had seen that black pistol outlined against the white pants. The only people I knew for sure that were still in the building were Ms. Castellon and those boys. I cursed my luck and took off. If I could get to Castellon's room right away, we could get out through the gym. Once out, we could call the police, the army, and Sheriff Joe. But at the moment, only I could save them.

The Fifth/Sixth Grade wing was at the back of the school. I ran, hopped, staggered through the halls as quickly and as quietly as I could. I had my keys out and opened the door to that wing, then eased it back closed with a soft click. Castellon's door showed light underneath, and I let myself in so quickly that she looked up at me in surprise—was I trying to be funny?

Geez, Frank! What is it?

The boys stared at me with wide, fearful eyes. They were handsome, slender kids in thrift-shop clothes. The young one had these round, apple cheeks.

You have to leave now. There are men here.

Castellon didn't hesitate. Come on, boys.

She and the young one, whose name was Christian, or Cristiano, I remembered now, were at the door quickly, but Adam, trying to stuff his feet in his shoes without success, lagged behind. He got one shoe on, but he couldn't get his heel into the other one. As we waited, he squirmed his foot clumsily, his eyes wide with terror. I thought I heard the scratching of a key in the door at the end of the hall. Maybe they wouldn't get it with the first key they tried. Adam kicked off his shoe and skipped across the room in his socks.

I opened the door and peeked out. We had to go about fifty feet, past a pair of classrooms and the boys' and girls' bathrooms. A definite scratching could be heard from the locked door at the other end of the corridor. Still looking for that key, I hoped!

Go! I whispered, waving them out and down the hall.

We were almost to the exit when I heard the turn of the cylinder in the lock at the other end of the hall, and the thumb latch going down. I don't know how I could hear that, could see it right in the front of my mind, but I somehow instantly and soundlessly scooped all three of them into the boys' bathroom just as the door began to open behind us.

The bathroom door stood open, in airing-out position for the night. We tumbled in, and the motion sensor lights went on. For a second I considered locking the door, but closing it might make a sound that would give us away.

And they had the key.

Castellon whispered to the boys and they went into the last two stalls. I pushed the override button on the light switch and the room plunged into darkness. I slipped into the first stall.

Up here! Castellon whispered. In the stray light from the hall I could make out her form. She was standing on the toilet. Her hand guided me as I pulled myself up next to her. She was a smart cookie, or a cop-show fan. If someone standing near the door looked under the partitions, they wouldn't see feet.

That thought took less than an instant, my mind was racing so fast. I listened hard, trying to monitor where the bad guys were and how the kids were doing. I could detect them breathing softly in the adjacent stalls. Propped there with one foot on the toilet seat and one on the paper dispenser, trying to still my body, I had a half-second to remember that in the remodel five years ago, I had tried to get wall-mounted toilets, because they are easier to clean under. They were more expensive, and the district didn't buy them. So as I half-crouched there, maybe a minute from being shot, I wondered: Would a wall-mounted john have held the combined weight of Castellon and me?

I didn't really hear anything, but sensed someone outside the bathroom door for a moment, and then not there. Finally one of the classroom doors opened at the far end of the hall. The thought of them checking up to eight classrooms while I hung there in an agonized crouch made me weak to the point of nausea. On the other hand, every next breath at this point was a reprieve.

They might only be in the classroom for a few seconds, but I could relax a little. Shift my weight.

Who are they? I whispered.

Narcos, Castellon breathed. Drug gang. They came to kill the rest of the family.

Jesus.

Out in the hall, a door clicked open, then another one. Probably they just crossed to another room.

I whispered, This is why they didn’t want to go home?

I don’t know the whole story.

We were embracing to steady each other. I felt the heat of her on my throat and face. Don't know much about Ms. C., even though she’s been here a few years. I know if she has a problem with the room, I'll hear about it.

Mr. Martin, it's too cold in here. We're all wearing coats. Or, Mr. Martin, I'm still waiting for you to move those boxes out. This is a classroom, not a storage room. Some of the other lady teachers smile when they ask for something, or flatter you. Like the little girl in the nursery rhyme, the one with the curl. Not Castellon. She may spare a smile but lets you know it's your job, not a favor, to do whatever. She’s not like that with the kids. I’ve seen the real feeling she has for them. Not all teachers have that. She does. Her first name is Brenda, I think.

Another door opened and sighed as the auto closer pulled it shut.

Then someone was outside the restroom. The beam of a flashlight shot across the room and bounced crazily over our heads before stopping, pointed now, I was sure, at the light switch, which has no off-on, just the motion detector, which I had disabled. To turn it back on, he would have to hit the override, recessed under the electric eye. You definitely had to know where it was. Because if there was a way to jack with it, kids would jack with it fifty times a day.

I expected the flashlight to come around and shine in the half-open door of the stall, and pointing at us with the light would be a gun. The blood pounded in my chest and ears and fingertips, but I got ready to jump at the light when it appeared. Maybe I'd knock him down before he could pull the trigger. That's a hell of a goal to have for what could be the rest of your life.

But the flashlight shone under the bottom of the stall, back and forth, and then it was gone. We waited, not even breathing now, and finally the doors at the far end of the hallway opened and slowly closed. We crouched there in silence another full minute.

Oh God, Castellon moaned.

Are they gone? One of the boys.

Yeah.

I helped Castellon down from our perch, both of us a little unsteady. The boys were already at the door of our stall. We crept toward the bathroom doorway and stopped. I looked out into the hall. Empty.

Okay, I said. They followed me out into the hall.

Cris’s face was frozen, but his eyes darted all around. Adam, I noticed for the first time, still held on to his shoes, gripping them like weapons, little clubs. He put them on, easily now, because he was only frightened half to death.

We'll get out through the gym. I had my phone out punching, nine, one—

No! Adam grabbed my hand. Don't call the police. They'll deport us.

I almost laughed. If you live that long.

No!

He's right, said Castellon. If they get sent back to Mexico, they might as well be dead.

What happened down there? Is your family in a gang?

No! Rage burned in Adam's eyes. My dad killed one of them. Big narco. Very bad man. But it was an accident. Then they killed him and burned down his store. You don’t know what they’re like. His voice dropped to a pleading whisper. They were going to kill us and our mother. We had to leave the country before—even before the funeral. Tears burst out of his eyes in a sudden storm. He wiped his face with his sleeve, and as suddenly, the storm passed. We can’t go back.

"And you ended up here in Phoenix with your mother?

No, said Cris. With our aunt. Our mother had to leave. They were going to kill her.

Come on. As shaken as I was by this story, there wasn't time now to delve into it. Nothing would matter if we didn’t get out of here. I led the way, across the breezeway and into the gym. Just get us out and let someone else sort the guilty and the innocent.

Grand Avenue used to be a junior high, so it has a big gym and funky old locker rooms, things they don’t put into elementary schools anymore. The lights were still on in the gym, all of them, and it took me a second to remember why: There'd been a basketball game that afternoon. Kurt, and Jonesy, the half-timer, had cleaned up, but Kurt had left the lights on and the folding bleachers rolled out. Kurt forgot stuff.

But I couldn't stop to think about Kurt.

We trotted across the gym to the little foyer by the parking lot door, still half tip-toeing, trying to be quiet. I opened the door and inched outside.

In the orange glow of the parking lot lights I saw Letterman coming around from the office. He didn't seem to see me. I backed up and pulled the door closed.

We have to go out that way. I pointed. Through the locker room. You take them, I told Castellon. I'll turn off the lights. It'll slow them down.

It was only going to take five seconds, I was going to be right behind them. The master switch box for the gym was right there, in a utility closet. I could kill all the lights except in the locker room. I used my key to open the closet door as Castellon and the boys ran out of the little foyer, out around the bleachers. I reached for the gang switch.

Ahh! The guttural male voice came from the gym.

All sounds of motion stopped.

Okay, okay! said the voice.

Through the crack in the hinge side of the door I saw Cowboy walking toward them, a nickel-plate revolver at the end of his outstretched arm.

Here you are, he continued in tense, raspy Spanish, as if biting off each word. Now we have you little shits. Just park right there. Or words to that effect. Then he said something into a cell phone.

I was hidden from his view by the closet door. I stepped farther into the tiny closet, carefully pulling the door almost shut behind me. They didn't know I was in the building. That was my advantage, if only I could figure out a way to use it.

I heard a sound outside, and suddenly the exterior door next to me opened, I inched the closet door almost closed. Letterman walked by, not noticing anything. After he passed, I opened the door enough so I could see through the crack.

Letterman walked over and shoved Adam in the face. Both men laughed.

Castellon pulled the boy to her and berated the thugs. I couldn't hear what she said, but I heard the tone, I knew that I was obligated—obligated—to have as much backbone as this woman, who barely cleared five feet and was standing inches away from the gaping muzzle of a very big pistol.

I had to do something now or they were going to die. But if I did something, I would die first, unless God wrapped me in His righteousness and made me invisible.

Invisible.

The two men discussed something in harsh, rapid mumbles while gesturing around the gym. Cowboy took a roll of duct tape out of his coat pocket. Letterman pulled both of Castellon's arms behind her and clutched them in one hand. He took the roll of tape from the other man and pushed her out of my sight. They had to be heading to the locker room.

Cowboy gestured with his gun toward the basketball backboard at the north end of the court and said something to the boys. Something evil.

Now was the time, while Letterman was gone. I pried my feet out of my shoes and looked one more time through the crack, memorizing the position of the boys. I held my hand over my eyes for a few seconds and flipped the master switches.

I opened the door into darkness and silence. As I started to run, a crash came from the locker room.

Cowboy called out Yermo?

The response was more banging and Letterman's distant cursing. By then I had covered half the distance to the boys. In the dim light from the exit signs, I could make out shadows. I reached out and hit Cowboy's hard, heavy arm, knocking it out of the way. I grabbed the boys by their shirts and shoved them. Go!

They took off like scared colts. I stumbled after them, trying to keep a grip on their shirts.

I guided them toward the exit sign over the door we had come in. It would take us back through the school.

A gunshot rang out. Loud mother.

We had reached the end of the far-side bleachers, but we weren't going to make it to the door before the next bullet. The shooter could not see us, but he could hear us. He might not miss again.

Here! I shoved the boys toward the back of the bleachers. Go in!

Another gun blast.

Underneath the roll-out bleachers was a tangle of steel posts, cross members, and angled supports that scissored together when the bleachers closed. But at the very back, beneath the top row of seats, was a narrow passage that could be squeezed through if you stepped over roller tracks and ducked under crossbars.

I pulled Cristian into this passage, and Adam followed. We stumbled and bumped through the metalwork. I could hear Cowboy's boots running toward us.

If we could get through to the other end, there was another door there. We seemed to be getting the hang of it, working our way through by touch rather than sight.

I wondered what had happened to Castellon.

Another shot exploded. A bullet flashed off steel and clanged into something solid. He was down at the end of the bleachers behind us and could hear us, but of course he couldn't see us.

Then there was another shout, and a stab of light ahead of us.

"¡Pa-ya! Pa-ya!" Cowboy yelled. Over there.

Letterman was back, and he had a flashlight. The light shone through the web of steel up ahead. It didn't reach us, but the men were now at both ends.

We were trapped.

Another shot rang out behind us. The bullet ricocheted off somewhere.

Letterman yelled angrily, probably about the shot, which could have hit him. Unable to shoot at us now, they began coming into the maze of steel supports from either end, kicking and stumbling and cursing.

We had stopped in the middle, where, I remembered, there was a little recess in the wall for the electric motor that rolled the bleachers in and out. I pushed the boys in there. It was a move of near hopelessness, but if we could just stay alive a few more minutes, maybe the police would come. Someone outside had to have heard the shots, didn't they? It was probably too late for 911, but I pulled out the cell phone. Deportation was not our problem now. Living was our problem.

Christ, they were getting close. As I flipped the phone open and the screen lit up, I caught a glimpse of the two boys huddled next to me, panting and trembling in the little alcove, eyes blinking in terror.

And I saw the red button on the wall right in front of my nose. A switch. A switch!

With my fingers I followed the metal conduit from the bottom of the switch box to the motor. Was this the backup switch for the bleacher motor? I had never used it or dealt with it at all.

They were almost here. No time for police, no time for anything. I pushed the button.

The powerful motor kicked and whined, and the bleachers lurched and rumbled as they began to close. I held my breath, expecting the gunmen to reach us and start shooting.

They both yelled and cursed in Spanish. Angry at first, and then terrified.

My God! said one. What have we— Save our unworthy asses!

Or words to that effect.

The pitch of the motor increased as the mechanism met resistance. The rolling bleachers bounced and bumped. The pitch of the curses rose upward together and turned into a brief, gargling scream. Though we couldn’t see anything, the scream was very close and cut through the loud hum of the motor. That terrifying scream meant we were safe, but it was still horrible to hear.

Now the metal grid pressed against the recess where we huddled. The motor shut off. The bleachers were closed.

I heard a moan,